


Favourite Customer

by AdamantSteve



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Tie Kink, coulson being a badass without even really doing anything, stripper!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stripper!Clint's favourite customer pays him a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favourite Customer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I've got no soul to sell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/659922) by [shinykari (meinterrupted)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinterrupted/pseuds/shinykari). 



> Sort of in the same universe as [I've Got No Soul To Sell](http://archiveofourown.org/works/659922) (wherein Steve finds Bucky in a strip club). But not really beyond it being a strip club full of hot dudez.
> 
> Beta read by [Dunicha](http://dunicha.tumblr.com) and encouraged by various posts on tumblr about Stripper!Clint.

Clint yelps and then glares at Dmitri, who just pinched his ass and is grinning at him. "Your favourite customer's here," he says as he leans past to grab a lime wedge. Clint looks past him to the bar, and there he is alright - the _guy_. 

 

In a place like this, the mystique is meant to be all in the dancers' hands. The customers ask your name and you wink, tell them they have to buy you a drink first and then you'll tell them everything they could possibly want to know, and then you give them a fake name anyway; something ridiculous and manly sounding. Half of them tell you their life story: about their wives or their jobs or how they wanna fuck you. And you tell them sorry, that's against house rules and, well, you'd love to but you'd lose your job.  

 

But this guy... Clint still doesn't know his name. Not even a fake one! And ok, that's not _that_ weird; the clientele has its fair share of nervous guys scared that it'll get out that - gosh - they like hot guys dancing around in their underwear, but there's something about this particular man that makes Clint actually want to know. He deflects when Clint asks him, tells Clint he’d just forget it anyway. He can’t check his credit card for a name since he always pays for everything with cash, and ok, it's a cash business and Clint's a little biased but damn if he doesn't feel a shiver of excitement when he pulls out that moneyclip - not even a wallet - and it's thick with hundreds. Who the fuck _is he_? 

 

The man's never asked anyone else for a private dance, which is something Clint holds on to jealously. There are other good customers, Clint has other regulars even, but this one is his favourite because he's so completely out of place yet seems so utterly at ease at the same time. Clint’s always had a thing for slightly older men with wads of cash, and there’s something about him that hits every one of Clint’s buttons. 

 

There's a crowd since it's Friday night and it's the kind of place that's not just about the dancers - it's halfway to respectable - and the cocktails are good enough that the bar's two people deep, but this guy's sitting on a stool as cool as anything, like there isn't a heaving mass of warm bodies jostling around him. He's nursing what Clint already knows is one of the good whiskies. He doesn't look up til Clint's looking at him and he tips his drink and smiles the tiniest bit before sipping it. Clint smiles back as he saunters over and leans close - the music's loud after all. "You want a dance?" Clint asks.

 

He already knows the answer but does it just so he can feel the man's breath on his ear as he leans close and answers, “Yes, please."

 

Clint draws back and grins, and is met with a raised eyebrow of dry amusement, at what, Clint's never sure, but that's the expression the guy always has: cool but slightly amused, like he's indulging Clint rather than the other way round. 

 

Clint checks the book for a free room, nods towards one and walks to it, knowing the man’s right behind him checking out his ass. Clint stands in the doorway so the guy has to brush right past him to come in so he can breathe in the man's cologne. 

 

"Lose this," the man says, lightly touching the cheesy white collar and tie they all have to wear on a Friday. It's meant to be against the rules for customers to touch the dancers, but Clint easily lets it slide. He thinks he’d just about let this guy do anything, which is a little scary, honestly. The man sits on the couch and Clint lets the door drift closed, the music muffling to a velvety bass beat once it's shut. 

 

"Any special requests?" Clint asks, and he's talking about the music though he lets it hang in the air to see if it’ll get anything out of the man.

 

He smiles and shakes his head. "No," he replies like he does every time. He always lets Clint pick, so he just chooses something slow and dirty sounding. There are a few other seats around; you can have a whole party in one of these rooms, but the man leans back on the couch and lets his legs spread a little and it doesn't feel like anyone else could fit in here but the two of them. He sips his drink and watches Clint pull off the cuffs and the collar, placing the clip-on tie with them in a little pile on a low table next to the couch.

 

The music starts and Clint lets himself get lost in it, moving unthinkingly, letting it take over his body without being aware of much beyond what the man looks like sitting there, their eyes roving over each other's bodies as Clint tries to shake the man's endless resolve. He spins on the pole and twists and winds his back seductively, working his muscles and flexing his ass just so, wondering what the man's hands would feel like on it, in his hair, what his lips taste like... 

 

He grinds against the pole and does a few tricks, showing off more than anything, and the man looks for all the world like he’s letting Clint get away with how brazen he’s being. Clint bends and straightens back up slowly, lets the guy get a good long look at his ass before brushing a hand down his chest and biting his lip. The man’s undoes another button of his shirt, but looks almost like he’s bored.

 

Clint huffs to himself and stalks over to sit in the man's lap, legs either side of the soft fabric of whatever his suit's made of. He doesn’t even react, though he's not quite as unruffled as he was before, his breath a little faster and shallower than it was. Clint takes the glass from his hand and sips from it, the peatiness of the whisky burning his throat as he swallows and places it on the table. He writhes in the man's lap and can feel that he’s hard but he still doesn’t do much more than look at Clint’s lips and swallow. Clint leans in as if to kiss him, and the shaky exhale the man makes has him almost doing it, but he leans back just before they touch and grinds a little more. "You like that?" he whispers, brushing his nose over the shell of the man's ear. 

 

The guy’s being so good - no hands, and Clint figures he ought to be glad since handsy customers are the worst, but still. He wants to get this guy so turned on he can't help himself. He still hasn't answered and Clint lets go of the back of the couch to run his hands down the man's shoulders and over his arms - which are bigger than the jacket lets on - and down to his hands. 

 

They're soft; most older guys who come here work 9 to 5 office jobs and Clint’s always figured the same about this one, but the crooks of his fingers are rough in a couple of places which Clint's pretty sure are trigger calluses and he almost stops in surprise - glee bubbling through him at finding out a secret about the life of the man he knows nothing about. But he keeps moving, takes those hands and pulls them just far enough to rest on his thighs, and he moves them once they're there to give the guy the idea. The man breathes a shuddering breath and swallows hard as he looks back at Clint, his eyes dark. He grinds again and it has the man's hands moving on his skin. It gives him goosebumps somehow, and he ought to be embarrassed at just how wanton he’s acting, even if it’s pretty much part of the job. He’s not sure if he’s ever meant it as much as this before.

 

The man runs his hands up and down Clint's thighs with something like possession in his eyes and it makes Clint shiver. For all his attempts at ruffling the guy, he's making Clint lose his own shit instead. Something about his hands - those rough patches catching on his skin feeling like they're vibrating into him - makes Clint wonder how those would feel on the rest of him, on his ass or his cock, if they'd be too much or just enough. The man's touch is gentle though not shy, roaming freely now he's been given permission, which Clint kind of can't believe he gave but fuck if he's not glad he did.

 

The song ends, and Clint's practically rutting against the man to relieve his own hardness as much as anything else, but he can't make himself pull away and tell him times up and another dance is eighty bucks, he just listens to both of them breathing hard and heavy in the plush quietness of the room with the bass still pumping away outside. He wants... a lot of things. He wants to touch the guy's cock with his hands and kiss the whisky taste out of his mouth but that's not... he doesn't do that. Other people do that kind of shit and the rest of the dancers laugh about them. But it's not like the guy is trying to talk him into doing anything, Clint's the one who sat on his lap, Clint's the one who's _still_ sitting there even though the song's over. 

 

The man moves and Clint's leg is cold and he feels almost bereft. Clint's gaze follows the man’s hands as he picks up the tacky white collar and slowly, as though he’s waiting for Clint to stop him - puts it back around Clint's neck. He buttons it up neatly and straightens it, and Clint just sits there dumbly while he does it. It's just about the hottest thing he's ever experienced.

 

He swallows when the man reaches into his jacket and pulls something out. He thinks it's the money clip at first, but it's something dark and coiled, and when he lets go of one end it rolls from his hand - a tie. It must be his own, thinks Clint, though he’s never seen him wearing one before. He loops it around Clint's neck and ties it neatly under the collar, smoothing it down over Clint's chest and then letting his hand rest there for a moment too long before reaching for the cuffs. He puts them on Clint's wrists as he holds them out and Clint’s throat is completely dry at this point, and it doesn’t make any sense having someone do this and it be hot but it is, and he’s such a cliche he’s almost mortified.

 

The man nods for Clint to get up so he just slides off to one side so he's on the couch. Honestly he's not sure his legs would carry him if he tried to stand, so he just sits there and tries to remember what he’s meant to do now, what he’s supposed to say. Sometimes the guy stays for two songs, so he ought to ask him if he’d like another, but his brain can’t get past the fact that the man’s tie is around his own neck.

 

"Thank you," the man says, and he's still hard but the reserved little smile is back on his face, like it’s not a big deal at all. He pulls out the money clip and peels far too many bills from it, places them next to the clip-on tie and his mostly empty drink before shucking his jacket off and slipping out of the door. 

 

Clint catches a glimpse of him melting into the crowd with his jacket held in front of him before the door clicks shut and then he collapses back into the chair. He sits for a minute, breathing hard before reaching over to the man’s abandoned drink. He hates whisky but he sips it anyway, pressing his lips where the man’s were and savouring it, the acrid flavour watered down with melted ice. He smooths the tie over his skin and waits for someone to bang on the door to get him out of there when his thumb catches on the tag. He flips it over to see if it is really pure silk like it feels. 

 

‘Coulson’ is embroidered on the tag, and maybe it’s just some menswear company he doesn’t know, but either way, it gives him a name. ‘Coulson,’ he rolls around in his head. He rubs a thumb over the word and smiles. He feels giddy and ridiculous when he picks up the money (wow) and the clip-on and heads back out into the grinding heat of the club.


End file.
